Temporary Dwelling

Valley either side,
I on the spine, this way
goldenrod, this
chaparral. Far down,
still roans, a rubbled
ledge, one
cloud-eclipsed then
brilliant house
from which someone
would see me as
gold blazonry (a live-
oak’s leaves,
a pine’s held cones,
a roughened
sandstone firebreak
road’s ascent to
sun) a cloud-bank
shadow crosses gone.